Summary -Â Feyre was a High Lady. Nesta was a Valkyrie. Elain was a Seer.
And she was the sister the Cauldron ruined and forgot.
Invisible in a family of legends, haunted by nightmares no one noticed, she learned to stay quiet... to expect nothing.
Except Azriel noticed. The Shadowsinger who never spoke too much saw everythingâher pain, her loneliness... and the bond between them she didn't even know existed.
When the world decides she is the easiest one to breakâAzriel will make them suffer for it.
A/n -Â As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
This is my very first Archeron sister fic! For the sake of the story, I've had to make the sisters a little harsh at times but that's purely for plot reasons, not an invitation to throw shade at them x
Expect healing, found family vibes, and basically an overlooked girl x quiet boy kind of story. There will be heartbreak, angst and eventually fluff :)
Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3
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how do we feel about the idea of Az being super touch averse (esp after being kept alone in the dark his whole childhood and his hands burned by his so called family/half brothers) UNTIL he meets his mate? I feel like she would absolutely respect his boundaries but heâs so touch starved and he loves her sm that he talks to her about starting with small touches and working their way up and then they eventually get to the point that she can touch him wherever and however she wants and sheâs always so affectionate and loving and just pours all her adoration for him into every touch and he just smiles like a dork every time. But the first time the IC see her all over him they tense and wait for him to tell her off but he just leans into it and kisses her
loved this idea! i so agree re: him not loving touch/knowing how to accept it or initiate it. i wasn't gonna post this because by the time it was done it felt like it fell flat, but decided to post it anyway; apologies if it didn't hit the way you wanted it to!
Azriel x mate!reader who brings out a different side of him [1.5k words]
CW: fem!reader, dirty jokes, references to sex but SFW, fluff
Feyre hasnât known Azriel for as long as most of the Inner Circle, and most of what she knows about the notoriously private male comes from the stories shared with her from his family.
But there is one thing Feyre has come to know about the Shadowsinger that no one needed to inform her about.Â
Azriel has a clear aversion to touch.Â
For someone whose job can be so physical, he keeps physical contact to an absolute minimum.Â
Greeting new people usually comes with his gloved hands folded behind his back and a gentle nod, his wings are always tucked tight and elbows kept close to his sides so as not to brush elbows with anyone. Even his brothersâcenturies spent in close proximity to one anotherâseem to know precisely when they can push it, and when they ought to steer clear.Â
The closest thing sheâs ever gotten to a hug from the male was the gentle brush of his shoulder against hers in thanks during a gift exchange last Solstice; she had known him for years at that point.Â
Nestaâthe nosey busybodyâonce asked Cassian how that (being Azrielâs aversion to touch) works when he used to come home smelling like a female in the mornings following a night at Ritaâs.Â
Rhysand and Cassian shared a knowing look before Cassian mumbled something about Az ârunning a tight shipâ and then offered absolutely no follow up information (not for a lack of trying on Nestaâs part).Â
So, itâs safe to say that none of them knew what to expectâhow to reactâwhen Azriel came home smelling like a bond and announcingâmore like reluctantly admittingâthat he met his mate.Â
While Feyre and Nesta can hardly be considered having experienced a normal mating bond (whatever a normal mating bond may be), theyâve heard stories about perfect strangers meeting by chance in a market and embracing each other likeâŠwellâŠlike two halves of a lost soul finally reuniting.Â
But Feyreâs only seen Azriel hug his own brothers a handful of times over the years sheâs been here, so she definitely couldnât imagine Azriel wildly embracing his new mate on a whim in public.Â
Needless to say, they were all on the edge of their seats, awarding Azriel with the privacy he needed, wanted, and deserved as he navigated his new mating bond while simultaneously itching to see how it might look.Â
Tonight was finally their chance.Â
âDoes my hair look okay?â Cassian asks the room, running fingers through his wild locks in a show of insecurity rarely ever seen from the brute.Â
âWhy does it matter? Itâs not like youâre meeting your mate for the first time,â Amren hums judgementally around the rim of her wine glass.Â
Cassian narrows his eyes at the ancient being. âThis is important, alright? I want to make a good first impression.â
Nesta snorts. âWell I wouldnât worry then. Youâve never once made a good first impression.âÂ
âYou guys are very mean,â Cassian huffs, giving up on the tugging of his hair. âI hope sheâs nicer, maybe Iâll finally have a godsdamned friend in this house.â
âHey,â Feyre laughs. âCome now.âÂ
Cassian softens. âOkay, fine; another friend besides Feyre.â
âThank you,â she concedes.Â
The room stills when boots sound on the terrace of the House of Wind, and itâs clearly an effort for the entire family not to stand simultaneously and rush the door to get a peak of you.Â
The two of you appear in the doorway; Azrielâs wing extended behind your back like a gentle guide keeping you close to him.Â
âThis is my family,â Azriel explains softly, eyes travelling over the group of fae currently holding their breath. âFamily, this is my mate.âÂ
Somehow, Azrielâs voice softens around the syllables of your name, making it sound like a note of a song or the gentle hum of a breeze.Â
âHello,â you greet quietly, nerves obvious though so is your excitement.Â
âItâs nice to finally meet you,â Rhysand welcomes first. âWeâve been wondering when Azriel might deign to share you with us.âÂ
âIâŠI feel like I should bow, but Azriel told me it was very important that I keep you humble,â you admit, knees clearly itching to bend when being greeted by the notorious High Lord of the Night Court.Â
âOh, thank the Mother,â Cassian sighs in theatrical relief. âI donât think the rest of us will survive if his head gets any bigger.â
âMy head is perfectly sized, thank you,â Rhysand huffs at his brother, softening his gaze when he turns back to you. âBut thereâs certainly no need to bow; weâre family.â
Your chest rises with relief and pride, and the corner of Azrielâs lips lift in time with it.Â
âItâs nice to finally meet you all,â you state as your gaze drifts over the entire group, and Feyre can understand why Azriel seems to have a hard time peeling his gaze from you; youâre magnetic, your eyes so soft and so kind that you make every person feel like the most important person in the room just by looking at them. âIâve heard so much about you all, it feels like Iâve already known you for centuries.â
Mor breaks first.
âOh, I am so happy to meet you,â she all but squeals, racing towards you.
Feyre isnât entirely sure what she expected to happen, but she certainly wasnât expecting for you to step away from Azriel and meet Morrigan in the middle of the room in a tight embrace.
âYou must be Morrigan,â you hum happily into her shoulder.Â
âIâll be whoever you want me to be, sweetheart,â Mor laughs, pulling away from you. âIâm glad youâre here.â
âAlright, my turn,â Cassian announces, all but shoving Mor out of his way to bring you in for his own embrace, though his involves lifting you off of your feet and eliciting a surprised oof out of you. Azrielâs wings twitch in subtle agitation.Â
âCassian, I assume?â you giggle.
âYouâd assume correct, beautiful. Itâs nice to finally meet you.â
âAlright, out of the way, you big bat.â Feyre swats at Cassianâs arms to release you, only for you to be transferred into her own. âIâm so happy youâre here.â
âThank you for having me,â you murmur, quieter now, as though meeting her holds some extra weight.
She looks over at Azriel and his soft gaze confirms it: you were worried about meeting her.Â
âThe honour is really all mine,â Feyre assures you, pulling away only to hold you by your shoulders.Â
She nods her head, really liking you for her brother-in-law. âAs Iâm sure you know, this is my husband Rhys. That there is my sister and Cassianâs mate, Nesta, and thatâs Amren, Rhysâ second in command.âÂ
Azriel finally fully enters the room, moving to step up behind you as though a quiet anchor. Your shoulders subtly loosen at his proximity.Â
âSo, how has it been being mates with Azriel over here?â Cassian asks jovially, returning to his seat in the living room.Â
âHeâs perfect, really,â you tell them earnestly, smiling up at the Shadowsinger whoâs turning a beautiful shade of pink. âI truly couldnât have asked for better.âÂ
âAh, so youâre a liar too,â Amren drawls with a roll of her eyes.Â
Azriel looks like heâs trying not to do the same before gesturing for you to take a seat. âIgnore her.âÂ
âI hope she doesnât lie to you anywhere else, brother,â Cassian continues, smiling when his quip is met with a lethal glare from said brother. âYou know, like in the bedroom.âÂ
âYes, thank you, Cassian,â Azriel deadpans.
âOh, donât worry Cassian, heâs perfect there too,â you respond quickly, surprising the room into silence as Azriel joins you on theârather cozyâloveseat. âIf youâd like some tips Iâm sure I can convince him to let you watch.âÂ
Rhysand bursts into unrestrained laughter.Â
âMother above, where did you find this female?â Cassian sputters.Â
The corner of Azrielâs lips turn up. âWhat? You think I warned her about Rhys and not you?âÂ
With this Azriel lifts his arm and places it along the sofa behind your head; Feyre holds her breath as you lean your head back on it.
Except Azriel doesnât pull away.Â
He doesnât straighten, he doesnât grit his teeth, he doesnât make a quick excuse to get a drink.Â
In fact, Azrielâs gloved hand drops from the back of the couch and onto your shoulder where he lovingly caresses the exposed skin near your collarbone.Â
You turn at the touch, smiling up at him warmly which finds his shadows blooming with joy.
And then your hand lands on his knee.Â
Feyre braces for impact again.Â
It doesnât come.
Well Iâll be damned, Rhysand drawls in Feyreâs mind. Heâs a changed man.Â
But Feyreâs not so convinced; she doesnât think the softness of his eyes or the adoration in his smile or the dedication of his attention are necessarily new attributes, just largely unseen.Â
I think she must just have a way of bringing it out in him, Feyre counters thoughtfully.Â
âWho the fuck is this male and what have you done with Azriel?â Cassian hollers then, not nearly as subtle as the rest of his family.Â
And whoâs responsible for bringing that out of Cassian? Rhysand sighs silently.Â
Summary:Â She is a Day Court princess, the light in every room, loud, bright, and adored. He is the Night Courtâs spymaster, hidden in shadows, haunted by the knowledge that she deserves better.
Authorâs Note: Another request completed! I hope you enjoy it!
Masterlist
Azriel had waited his whole life for the mating bond to snap, and now, as he watched her from across the room, it was nothing like he had imagined.
It snapped like sunlight searing through every shadow in his soul, filling the darkness with burning light.
His mate stood surrounded by a circle of heirs, nobles, and High Fae who made his skin crawl. Her laughter echoed through the ballroom as her hand rested against a High Faeâs chest.
Azrielâs world narrowed to her, his breath ragged and uneven.
A hand clapped his shoulder, dragging him out of the haze of her.
âRhys calls her the Day Courtâs princess,â Cassian chuckled. âApparently, Eris has been trying to wed her for nearly a century.â
Azriel said nothing.Â
He couldnât.Â
The word princess didnât begin to describe what she was.
She was life itself.
Her gaze found his then, and her smile faltered, just slightly, as her hand tightened on another manâs chest.
Azriel felt a pull deep within him, demanding and undeniable, dragging him forward.Â
Cassianâs eyes flickered between the princess, whose smile had now vanished completely, and Azriel, whose shadows were now restless, nearly engulfing him whole.
She felt it too.
She knew.
The princessâs hand fell from the manâs chest. Her eyes locked on Azriel as she crossed the ballroom toward them.
âAz,â Cassian hissed in disbelief as the most eligible bachelorette in all of Prythian rushed straight toward them.
She stopped a few feet away, the soft shimmer of her golden gown catching the light.
Up close, she was even more devastatingly beautiful. Every inch of her was warmth, gold, sun, and life.
Suddenly, Azriel felt like his shadows were strangling him.
âYou must be from the Night Court,â she said softly, a smile on her lips. âIâm Y/N itâs a pleasure to meet you.â
She didnât seem to notice the way every pair of eyes in the room turned towards her, towards them.
Maybe she just didnât care. She was used to being the centre of attention.
Azriel, however, felt every gaze.
He wasnât made for the spotlight.
Still, Azriel didnât move. He couldnât.
He just stared at her as she stood before him.
Cassian bumped his shoulder against his, but still, Azriel couldnât force a word out.
His shadows curled instinctively around her, as if trying to dull her light.Â
Instead of flinching like he expected, she laughed softly, a sound that made his mouth go dry, and for a moment, he thought he might faint.
She tilted her head, studying him. âI didnât catch your name.â
âAzriel,â Cassian said, grinning. âAnd Iâm Cassian, General of the Night Court.â
Before Azriel could even react, Cassian stepped and took her hand. He bowed slightly and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles.
Jealousy burned in Azrielâs chest, his shadows thickening at her ankles. Cassian glanced at him with a smirk before releasing her hand.
âCassian, the Night Courtâs War General,â she said with a smile. âAnd Azriel, whatâs your title?â
The way his name rolled off her tongue made his chest ache.
âSpymaster,â he said, his voice low and rough.
Her smile deepened into something that could have brought kings to their knees.
âSpymaster? That sounds⊠dangerous.â
Cassian laughed as Azrielâs jaw clenched.
âMost people call him the Shadowsinger,â Cassian added, lifting his glass of amber liquor to his lips.
The bond pulsed in Azrielâs chest, sharp, constant, and it took everything in him to remain still.
Her eyes filled with amusement.Â
âWell, Shadowsinger, your shadows seem to like me,â she giggled, hands gliding through the wisps of darkness that danced around her.
The sight made something twist inside him, equal parts awe and dread.
This wasnât how it was supposed to be.
His mate wasnât supposed to be someone like her.
Not someone who shone so brightly it hurt to look at her.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a teasing whisper. âTell me, Shadowsinger, do you dance?â
Azrielâs heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he could hardly breathe.
âI donât dance,â he said finally.
âA drink, then?â she asked, her smile softening.
Cassianâs smirk turned into a grin, glancing between them, but Azriel was already shaking his head.
âYou should enjoy your night,â he said, forcing a polite nod and avoiding her gaze.
âOh.â Her smile faltered, confusion flickering across her beautiful face.
âIâm on duty tonight,â Azriel added.
He could feel her hurt and rejection through the bond.
âRight,â she said softly.
A practised smile formed on her lips, but her eyes betrayed her, looking at him with hurt, as if she had never been denied a dance or a drink before.
He doubted she ever had.
âWell,â she said after a pause, her voice bright again. âIâll let you get back to your duties, shadowsinger. Iâll save you a dance.â
His heart twisted as he watched her take a step back, then another.Â
The crowd swallowed her whole, courtiers and suitors, drawn to her like moths to a flame. Even as she smiled and laughed, her gaze didnât leave Azrielâs.
He turned on his heel and pushed through the crowd, away from her, away from the sight of those men leaning too close, offering her company, drinks and dances that should have been his.
Jealousy flared hot, curling low in his stomach. The bond twisted painfully as he forced himself further and further from her.Â
âAz!â Cassian called, trying to catch up.
Azriel didnât stop until they reached the edge of the ballroom. His hands were shaking, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Cassian caught up to him.Â
âWhat the hell was that?â he demanded. âThe most beautiful woman Iâve ever seen just walked up to you, asked you to dance and have a drink, and you said no.â
Azriel dragged a hand down his face, shadows curling around him as if shielding him from reality.
âSheâsâŠâÂ
He couldnât bring himself to say it, the word catching in his throat.
Cassian exhaled sharply. âSheâs what?â
âSheâs my mate,â Azriel whispered, his voice cracking on the word.
Silence fell for a moment.Â
Cassian froze, eyes widening. âDoes she know?â
Azrielâs gaze flicked back toward the crowd surrounding her. Men leaned closer, trying to catch her attention.
âShe knows,â he said finally, forcing himself to meet Cassianâs eyes. âI think sheâs waiting for me to go to her.â
Cassianâs brow furrowed, confusion written across his face. âThen go to her. Have your dance, have a drink with your mate, speak to her.â
Her laughter echoed in his ears; the bond between them was relentless and aching, a constant pull beneath his ribs.
âShe deserves more,â he whispered. âSo much more than me.â
Cassianâs expression softened, but Azriel didnât look at him. He just stood there, shadows curling around his shoulders as her laughter faded into the music.
After that, he kept to the edge of the room, shadows cloaking him in darkness.
She was never alone, always surrounded by admirers, their laughter too loud, their touch too familiar and no matter how deeply he hid in the shadows, her eyes always found him.
Through the crowd.
Through the noise.
Through the dark.
Each time their eyes met, his breath caught, and each time, he was the one to look away first.
He could handle watching her from afar.
Until he saw him.
A flash of red hair, glowing like flames. A sharp smile. Amber eyes locked on one target.
Her.
Azrielâs stomach dropped, his fingers twitched at his sides, and his shadows coiled around his boots.
Eris Vanserra was heading toward his mate.
The heir of the Autumn Court bowed before her, taking her hand and gently kissing her knuckles. She laughed softly as Eris pulled her into a tight embrace, but her gaze slipped past him to where Azriel stood hidden in the shadows.
In that moment, Azrielâs control fractured.
Eris whispered something that made her laugh, a loud, unrestrained sound that twisted like a knife in Azrielâs chest. His wings flared slightly, and his hands clenched into fists.
âDance with me,â Eris murmured, already tugging her toward the floor.
She hesitated. Her gaze fixed on the shadows where Azriel stood, almost invisible.
Azrielâs chest tightened painfully as he watched them step onto the dance floor. Her gown shimmered with every turn, golden fabric catching the light.
Eris held her as though she belonged to him, his hand resting far too low at the small of her back.
Every instinct screamed at him to intervene, to pull her from Erisâs grasp and into his own arms where she belonged.
Maybe she did belong here, in the centre of the room, with the heir of a court.
Maybe the Cauldron had made a mistake.
He stood there, cloaked in shadow, and watched his mate dance with another man.
Finally, her eyes found his.
Across the room.Â
In the arms of another.Â
Azrielâs fragile control finally shattered.
He turned on his heel and left the ballroom, through the winding halls of the Night Court palace.Â
The air was too bright, too heavy.Â
He needed darkness.Â
He needed distance.Â
He needed to breathe.
Azriel pushed open the heavy doors of the balcony, the night air cool against his burning skin. His hands gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white.Â
The bond pulled at him relentlessly, a constant, searing ache beneath his ribs. It was a pain unlike anything he had ever felt, as if he were being burned from the inside out.
His eyes stung.
He couldnât remember the last time heâd cried. Couldnât remember the last time he allowed himself to feel so much, but now, standing alone, he was seconds away from breaking completely.
He tried to smother it, the bond, the ache, her.
Tried to build the walls back up.Â
To breathe through the pain.
His wings flared in frustration. His shadows writhed and coiled around him, whispering her name.
âStop,â he hissed to them. âStop.â
The bond tightened in response, strangling him.
He didnât hear the door open at first, only the sound of heels on stone.
He turned, tears drying instantly as his face settled into its usual mask.
Heâd expected Cassian. Maybe Rhys.Â
Anyone but her.
âIs there a threat out here?â she teased, her gown glowing in the darkness.
âIâm sorry?â Azriel said, carefully.
She tilted her head. âYou said you couldnât have a drink because you were on duty, but from what I can seeââ she glanced around the empty balcony, ââthere donât appear to be any threats.â
He inhaled sharply as she stepped closer.
âYou followed me,â he said, his fists clenched at his sides.
âI did.âÂ
She took another slow step forward. The closer she came, the more his shadows retreated.
âYou were hiding,â she continued. âWatching me, watching Eris, and acting as if it didnât bother you.â
Azrielâs shadows went still.
âYou could feel that?â he whispered.
She was so close that he could feel her warmth against his chest.
âI can feel everything you feel, Shadowsinger,â she murmured, her eyes flicking from his to his mouth. âAnd you, my mate, are jealous. Iâm here to tell you that I will always choose my mate, stranger or not.â
Azrielâs voice broke as he said, âYou deserve someone like Eris.â
A quiet laugh left her lips as she shook her head.
âIf I wanted Eris, I would have chosen him long ago. He knows that, itâs just a game to him, a chase heâll never win.â Her voice was soft but sure. âI donât want Eris. I want the man the Mother gifted me. My equal. My mate.â
He couldnât breathe. The bond burned between them, a living thing.
âIâm not here to rush you,â she whispered. âAnd Iâll never force the bond, but I couldnât leave the Night Court knowing my mate thought Iâd chosen someone else.â
He shouldnât have looked at her, because when he did, his heart raced.
All sense, all restraint, left him.
âStay,â he whispered.
Her breath caught, and then a smile formed on her lips. âAs you wish, Shadowsinger.â
She stepped even closer, her gown brushing against his boots. The bond ached between them.
âEris means nothing,â Azriel murmured, voice low and rough.
âEris means nothing,â she repeated softly, looking up at him through her lashes.
âTell me,â she said, her tone teasing. âDo you truly not dance, or were you avoiding me?â
âI donât know how,â he admitted. âWill you teach me?â
Her smile widened, and the look on her face nearly brought him to his knees.Â
âYes,â she whispered, reaching for him. âIâd love to teach you to dance.â
Her hands slipped into his, and the world tilted. The bond flared in response, and his chest tightened.
âFollow my lead,â she murmured, placing his hands on her waist, while hers rested on his shoulders.
She guided him, the Spymaster, the Shadowsinger, her mate, through the steps of a waltz.
He stumbled, stepped on her toes, tripped her, apologised too much, and his cheeks flushed for the first time in years. She scolded him, louder and fiercer than Cassian ever had during training, but every word, every correction, made his heart ache in growing affection.
After that night, everything changed.
For six months, they practised every evening.Â
He learned how to spin her without stumbling, when she wanted to be dipped or lifted, when to turn, and when to pull her close. Â
He learned her.
After that night, she never left his side.
She left the Day Court without a second thought. She moved into his home and filled every dark corner with light, colour, and life.
She was loud, spoiled, and everything he never knew he needed.Â
She kept every gift he gave her, every letter, every ribbon.Â
Every reminder of him.
On the night of their mating ceremony, they danced until their feet ached.
They danced with friends, with family, beneath the glow of the moonlight. He twirled her beneath the stars, her gown shimmering, her laughter echoing through the courtyard.
She glowed, a light so blinding, so pure, that he couldnât look away.
(n.) the strong urge to avoid someone or something
soft!dark!rhysand x fem!highfae!reader
You have spent your entire life knowing that one day, you might belong to Rhysand.
cw: mdni, dark(ish) themes, possessive/obsessive behaviour, big fat power imbalance, arranged marriage kinda trope, reader is terrified of rhys, feyre and him aren't mates in this story, problematic themes overall
a/n: writing rhys is so fun
You had been promised to Rhysand long before you understood what marriage even meant.
It was one of those facts that simply existed. Like the Sidra. Like starlight. Like the mountains surrounding Velaris.
Something decided by adults in rooms you were never permitted to enter and discussed over wine while children played elsewhere.
Your father had been one of the Night Court's most trusted courtiers. One of the few males Rhysand's father had genuinely respected.
The agreement had been reached when you were barely old enough to speak in complete sentences.
If Rhysand did not find his mate by the time you came of age, if fate did not intervene with its unpredictable hand, then you would marry.
It wasn't uncommon. It was the sort of arrangement noble families made every day.
Only there was one small problem.
You were completely and utterly terrified of Rhysand.
The first time you remembered meeting him, you had been perhaps sixteen, young enough to still hide behind your father whenever unfamiliar people addressed you.
Rhysand had already been well over a century old. Already taller than most males in the room. Already powerful enough that people unconsciously moved aside when he entered. Already carrying himself like someone destined to rule.
You remembered peeking around your father's shoulder, and seeing violet eyes settle on you.
Gods.
You had nearly died, not literally. But your heart had certainly attempted to flee your body.
Rhysand had smiled at you, a slow curve of his lips that was equal parts amusement and something else entirely, something you were far too young and far too sheltered to identify. And you had immediately hidden again.
The sound of his laughter had followed you all evening.
From that moment onward, you had spent most of your life avoiding him at all cost.
When he returned from training in the Illyrian mountains, you disappeared. When he attended court functions, you developed sudden illnesses. When your father informed you that Rhysand wished to spend time with you, you found increasingly ridiculous excuses.
Once, you had claimed you needed to reorganize your books, all three hundred of them, alphabetically, by color, and then by height. Another time, you insisted that a particular flowerpot in the garden required your immediate and undivided attention, as it had been looking "rather sad" lately.
Your father had nearly laughed himself sick.
Rhysand, unfortunately, had only smiled.
"You know," he'd said conversationally while watching you attempt to disappear behind a particularly decorative shrub, "I'm beginning to think she's avoiding me."
You had nearly tripped over your own feet.
Your father had sighed into his wine. "You frighten her."
Rhysand's gaze had remained exactly where you stood frozen.
"I know."
Nothing more, just that quiet, god-forsaken certainty he'd always possessed.
It only made everything worse.
He never chased you. Never cornered you. Never insisted you stay. He simply watched you flee with the endless patience of someone entirely unconcerned by the distance between you.
Like he had all the time in the world. Perhaps he did.
You certainly didn't. You couldn't help it.
He was overwhelming, even then. Before becoming High Lord. Before the reputation of being the most powerful male in Prythian.
He had possessed a presence unlike anyone else.
And whenever those impossible violet eyes settled on you, it felt as though he saw entirely too much.
So you hid. And he watched. Patiently, always patiently, because he had never been anything else when it came to you.
Years passed. Then decades. Then centuries.
Your father died. Soon after the tragedy that took both his sister and mother, Rhysand's father followed.
And suddenly the terrifying heir became High Lord.
The entire Night Court shifted beneath his command. Cassian became General. Azriel became Spymaster. Amren became his second-in-command. Mor his third-in-command.
The Inner Circle slowly took shape around him. They were warriors, leaders, survivors, bound together by blood, battle, and an unshakeable devotion to their High Lord.
They had fought in wars long before you were born, had bled and killed and nearly died for the court they loved.
And somehow, there was you.
You had no idea what your place among them was supposed to be.
You couldn't fight, couldn't spy, couldn't command armies. Had never even stepped foot on a battlefield. While they carried centuries of scars, your life had remained sheltered, peaceful and safe. You often felt like an accidental addition to a group you had no business belonging to.
Still, when Rhysand informed you that you too would be moving into the Town House, you weren't exactly surprised.
But disappointed. Hopeful, perhaps, because some foolish part of you had whispered that maybe, just maybe, the arrangement would die alongside your fathers. That Rhysand would become too busy, too occupied ruling an entire court, too distracted by the weight of his new responsibilities to remember an agreement made centuries ago.
You had been wrong.
Instead, your belongings were packed. Your room prepared. Before you knew it, you found yourself living beneath the same roof as the most powerful male in Prythian.
And your future remained exactly where it had always been; tied to Rhysand. The subject unspoken of, but always present. Neither of you discussed it. You certainly weren't brave enough to. And RhysandâŠRhysand never seemed interested in forcing the conversation.
Which, somehow, was even more unnerving. It was as though he had already decided the ending and was merely waiting for the story to catch up to his expectations.
You spent years navigating around him, around all of them. Growing closer to the Inner Circle while never quite feeling like one of them.
Mor dragged you shopping until your feet ached and your stomach hurt from laughing. Cassian annoyed you relentlessly and somehow made you feel more like a younger sister than an outsider. Azriel appeared silently whenever you needed help. Even Amren grew strangely fond of you, though she would sooner drink spoiled blood than admit it aloud.
You loved them, truly.
But there was always a distance, an invisible line. Because they belonged to one another in a way you never quite did.
Then Amarantha came. And when Rhysand was trapped Under the Mountain, the world changed in ways you couldn't fully comprehend.
For fifty years he was gone.
The strangest thing about those years was discovering how much space he'd occupied in your life.
Because suddenly he wasn't there. No deep laughter drifting through the Town House late at night. No familiar feeling of awareness prickling over your skin whenever he happened to look your way.
Nothing.
And somehow his absence felt larger than his presence had.
You hated admitting that. Especially to yourself.
You had expected to feel relief. Instead, you found yourself pausing whenever anyone mentioned Under the Mountain. Listening a little too carefully whenever the others talked of Amarantha.
Sometimes, standing on the balcony of the Town House long after everyone else had gone to sleep, you caught yourself staring toward the horizon, wondering whether someone like Rhysand could truly be broken.
Whether anything in the world was capable of dimming a force that had always seemedâŠinevitable.
The answer, it seemed, was yes. Though not entirely.
During those decades, life continued in Velaris. It had to. The city endured, and the Inner Circle protected Velaris with fierce determination, ensuring that Amarantha's corruption never touched the hidden sanctuary Rhysand had so carefully build.
The Town House remained full. JustâŠquieter. Even Cassian laughed a little less.
For the first time in your life, the future felt strangely unwritten. There was no Rhysand quietly existing at the edge of every decision, no overwhelming presence unconsciously shaping the rhythm of your days.
And somewhere during those fifty years, you began building something that belonged solely to you.
Your own friends. Your own routines. Your own apartment.
The apartment had been a battle. Not a dramatic one. There hadn't been any shouting or arguments. Just subtle resistance, the kind Rhysand's family excelled at, the kind that wore you down through sheer persistence, until surrender seemed easier than insisting otherwise.
Cassian had argued that you would be safer at the Town House, that being alone made you vulnerable. Mor had worried that you would become isolated. Azriel had said nothing, but you had felt the weight of his disapproving silence like a physical presence.
Amren, surprisingly, was the one who sided with you. "Let her go," she had said, her voice flat and disinterested. "She's not a child. If she wants to live alone, she should be allowed to."
Eventually, they relented.
You got your apartment. Under the compromise that you would stay at the Town House at least twice a week, a promise you gradually became worse and worse at keeping.
Because your apartment represented freedom. Limited freedom, certainly, but freedom nonetheless. It was a space that belonged entirely to you, filled with books you had chosen, plants you liked and paintings you had admired.
You built a life entirely separate from Rhysand. Or as separate as it could truly be.
Cassian still dropped by unexpectedly under increasingly transparent excuses. Azriel's shadows somehow always seemed to know when you walked home alone. Mor continued dragging you to Rita's whenever she decided you'd spent too many evenings hiding with a book.
You loved them for it. Even if it occasionally felt suspiciously coordinated.
Sometimes at Rita's, you watched Mor flirt openly with strangers. Watched her laugh, choose whichever male caught her interest that evening, and leave with him without a backward glance. Watched her return the following day like nothing had happened, no explanations required, no apologies offered.
You wondered what that kind of freedom felt like.
What it might be like to someday find your person. Not a future husband selected by men long gone. Not the High Lord. Not something arranged through politics.
Someone yours. Someone who chose you. Someone you chose back.
You held onto that dream stubbornly.
Even when Cassian scared away half the males who approached you. Even when Azriel's learned the identities of every male who expressed interest.
Even when part of you suspected Rhysand would never truly allow another male near you.
Not even from beneath a mountain.
You still hoped.
Because fifty years was a very long time. Long enough, you told yourself, for promises to fade. Long enough for old arrangements to lose their meaning.
Long enough to believe that perhaps, when Rhysand finally returnedâif he returnedâeverything would be different.
Then fifty years ended. And the world changed. Without your knowledge, without your permission, without warning.
You were finishing dinner with your friends when Rhysand returned, a mundane moment interrupted by the sudden, inexplicable certainty that something had shifted in the Night Court.
You felt something deep beneath your ribs tighten so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs, though you could not have named it then as anything more than unease, a strange, inexplicable wrongness threading through your thoughts like a hand brushing over the back of your neck.
Rhysand had returned.
The entire Inner Circle was gathered at the Town House when it happened.
Everyone, except you.
You wouldn't learn exactly how furious he had been until later, how he had appeared in the Town House, exhausted and damaged and barely holding himself together. How he had embraced his family, his warriors, his closest confidants. How he had looked around the room, noting each familiar face, his expression growing darker with every moment that passed. How he asked one question.
"Where is she?"
No one dared to answer.
You were not there.
Which, to Rhysand, became the only answer that mattered.
You would not learn later how still he had gone after that moment. How every trace of relief, every fragment of survival, every hard-earned breath Under the Mountain had been set aside like something irrelevant.
How he had simply asked again, calmer, slower this time.
"Where?"
And how no one had been able to answer him immediately because the implication of what it meant to return without you in sight had not yet settled properly into words.
By the time you unlocked your apartment door later that evening, your hand was trembling. You noticed it, and frowned faintly at yourself, blamed the long day, the wine you'd shared over dinner, anything except the truth your body was already beginning to understand.
He was already waiting, seated in your chair, legs crossed elegantly. Surrounded by shadows and looking impossibly beautiful, impossibly dangerous, and impossibly alive.
And when he looked at you, you stopped breathing entirely.
For a moment you couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at the male you had been running from your entire life.
You had imagined this reunion a thousand times. None of those fantasies involved him being angry.
His gaze was already fixed on you, dark and intense and burning with something you couldn't quite identify. Something that made your skin prickle with awareness, your heart pound in your chest, your knees threaten to give out beneath you.
"You weren't home," was the first thing he said.
Home. You weren't sure if the Town House had ever truly felt like home.
"IâŠ" Your voice came out embarrassingly small. "N-No."
You could see the muscle in his cheek twitch, the way something in him tightened at the sound of your voice. His gaze moved over you then, reassuring himself that you were real. That you were unharmed. That after fifty years, he had finally made it back to you.
Then the bond snapped. And the world exploded.
Mate
The word echoed through every part of you.
Mate Mate Mate
You had imagined the mating bond before. Dreamed of it, even. Wondered what it might feel like to experience that cosmic connection, that magical recognition, that perfect union of two souls meant for each other.
You had imagined warmth and certainty and joy.
Not this.
Not your entire soul lurching forward as if recognizing something it had spent centuries searching for. Not your knees nearly giving out. Not your heart breaking and healing simultaneously.
Across the room, Rhysand had frozen. For the first time in your life, you saw him stripped utterly bare. Shock, wide and unguarded flashed across his face. Relief so profound it nearly stole your breath.
Then something else crept into his expression. Something infinitely more possessive. Something that made your blood run cold.
The expression terrified you. Because suddenly every fear you'd ever carried became real.
You had wanted a mate. You had dreamed of one.
But not like this. Not someone who already had a claim on your future. Not someone powerful enough to remove every alternative.
Tears burned your eyes, and you stumbled backward.
His face immediately changed. Something wary entered his expression. Like he recognized exactly what was happening inside your head.
You hated that. Hated that he knew you so well.
And when he took a step toward you, you ran. Actually ran. One heartbeat he stood across the room. The next you were lunging for the front door. Not because you thought you could outrun him.
Because prey ran. It was instinct. Pure, thoughtless instinct.
You barely reached the door, before a solid body blocked your path. You slammed directly into his hard chest.
A startled noise escaped you as his strong hands closed around your waist, steadying you before you could fall.
Your palms landed flat against his chest. The entire thing happened so quickly your mind struggled to process it.
For one awful second, all you could think was that if he'd wanted to, he could have caught you before you'd even taken the first step.
"Mm," he murmured quietly above you, almost to himself. "So that's how we're starting?"
Your heart stopped. Then immediately started trying to beat its way out of your chest.
His voice was not raised, not sharp, not even angry. Nothing about this situation had surprised him at all. As though he had already seen every possible version of this moment and chosen the one where you were in his arms anyway.
His hands remained around your waist, not tightening, not pulling, only there, steadying you. It somehow felt far more intimate than if he'd held you tightly.
You throat bobbed.
His eyes followed the movement instantly.
The invisible thread seemed to hum, warmer now, heavier, like it was settling into place with growing certainty that made your chest tighten painfully.
Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip.
You immediately stepped backward.
Rhys let you. He simply released you enough that you could move, though the space between you did not truly feel like space at all, because he followed the motion with nothing more than a subtle shift of his body, as though he had already accounted for exactly how far you might go.
As though he had already measured every possible escape you might attempt.
"I need you to breathe." The words were impossibly gentle.
You hated how your body obeyed. Air filled your lungs in one shaky inhale.
His shoulders eased. Just slightly. As though your breathing had been affecting him too.
"You don't have to run," he said. His voice was quieter now, more careful.
You looked at him, really looked.
At the tension beneath that impossible composure. At the tremor in the fingers hanging motionless beside his thighs. At the way his chest expanded a fraction too deeply before every sentence. Like speaking calmly required conscious effort. Like there was something inside him straining so violently against its leash that even breathing had become work.
"Would you let me reject the bond?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.
The answer arrived instantly. Not through words. Through his expression, through the absolute steel in his eyes.
No. No, he wouldn't.
Your heart sank.
Rhysand's gaze dropped for half a heartbeat. Not to your face or your hands. But to you. Like he was seeing you in a way he had never allowed himself before.
"I need you to listen to me," he spoke, his voice even lower than before. Somehow that made it infinitely more dangerous.
"I know this isn't what you wanted." He paused, "I know. And I know you're frightened."
Something had slipped through his control like a breath he hadn't meant to let out.
"But I have waited for you for a very long time."
The words landed too softly. Because nothing about the way he was looking at you matched softness at all. His gaze held yours, unblinking and steady. Patient in a way that made your skin crawl.
"As for what happens next," he murmured quietly, a faint shift in his stance barely perceptible, "you are going to hate me for a while."
A beat passed.
"And I will still be here."
Still, he did not move closer, did not touch you. Your gaze landed briefly to the front door. To the impossible distance between it and you. To the male standing in the way. You knew for a fact, that if he decided you weren't leaving, the door might as well not have existed.
As if he'd read your thoughts, Rhys followed your gaze, and one corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't amusement, not quite. Something rougher, something honest.
"That," he said, "is a different conversation."
That expression returned. The one that made him seem less like a High Lord and more like a male who had been starving for far too long.
Then, just as quickly, control slammed back into place. His throat bobbed. A swallow. A very mortal gesture.
And somehow that affected you more than anything else.
You forced your shoulders to relax. It didn't work.
The connection stretched taut.
Your weight shifted forward without you meaning it to, just slightly. A fraction of movement, the kind your body made when something inside you leaned before thought could stop it. Toward him.
It was not even conscious. Not a decision rationally made. Just the bond, pulling like gravity disguised as instinct.
And yet the effect on him was immediate. Rhysand went utterly still. Like the world had narrowed to that single, almost imperceptible motion.
His breath changed. A sharp inhale that he did not fully complete. His hands flexed once, slowly. Like he was physically stopping himself from doing something he had already begun to prepare for.
"Don't," he said, the word quiet.
But it was not directed at you. It seemed to be directed inward, at himself.
You froze, heart suddenly too loud.
"I didn'tâ" you started, confused, because you hadn't meant to move at all.
"I know," he interrupted gently. Rhysand took a deep breath. "But I am asking you to be careful anyway."
You frowned. "I don't understand."
"No." A faint smile ghosted across his mouth. "I don't suppose you do."
The restraint was suddenly louder than anything else in the room.
Rhysand exhaled slowly. His shoulders lowered by a fraction, like he was forcing himself back into himself. Back into control. Back into the version of him you had always known.
But now you had seen the crack. And cracks did not disappear once you noticed them. They only became harder to unsee.
"You are going to make this difficult," he sighed quietly. It almost sounded like amusement, almost.
But underneath it, there was something else. Something that made you want to clench your thighs together.
And then, softer again, "I already know I wonât mind."
Summary: Azriel bumps into his tipsy mate on a night out. The IC don't know she exists.
A/N: I am 100% picturing the blumarine dress of my dreams... also apologies to anyone with purple hair....
Azriel had stopped listening to the conversation at the table the moment you twirled into peripheral view. One second you were laughing with one group, the next youâd somehow folded yourself into another like youâd been with them all along. You move through the dancefloor collecting people as you go, hands flying as you recount wildly animated stories one after another. Â
Cassian pushes back from the table mid-argument with Mor about whose turn it is to get drinks. âSheâs going to notice you staring eventually.â He mutters into Azrielâs ear on his way past.
âIâm not staringâ Azriel responds flatly.Â
Cassian snorts in disbelief at the lie. âYou are absolutely staring!â
Mor leans over Nesta, peering through the crowd until she spots you. âGo say hi. Sheâs hot⊠I might go introduce myself if you donâtâ she wriggles her eyebrows at Azriel as if that will encourage him to talk to anyone.Â
Azriel finally drags his attention away from you just long enough to shoot her a look. âYou wouldnât survive five minutes.âÂ
âRude.â Mor says, offended but delighted with herself at getting such a reaction out of the Shadowsinger.Â
âI love her dress!â Feyre remarks enraptured by the sequin number.Â
As if on cue, you turn mid-sentence, mid-gesture and spot him in the crowd. Your entire face lights up as you lock eyes with him. You disentangle yourself from the group without missing a beat, patting someoneâs arm, giggling at something else, then immediately setting your sights on the booth like itâs your next destination.
âSheâs coming here.â Amren says eager to see if this is a complete disaster waiting to happen.Â
âI donât think we have time for a lesson on how to flirt.â Rhysand giggles into his glass as he watches you weave through the crowd towards their table.Â
You arrive slightly breathless, instinctively latching onto the edge of the booth to disguise your slight sway. Your eyes are bright and unfocused in a way that even if you werenât unstable on your feet, itâs clear youâve been drinking.Â
âBudge up.â you mumble, already climbing into his space before he has a chance to move. Azriel shifts automatically, one hand finding your waist to steady you. Heâs seen you drunkenly slide off of too many chairs to trust it wonât happen again.Â
âWho died?â you ask far too loudly. âSeriouslyyy, why is it so serious over here? Did someone start a war without me?âYou look between them all for an answer as you lean further into Azriel.Â
Mor blinks, giving you a look of pure confusion as she asks, âDo we know you?âÂ
âNo but I feel like youâre already deciding if Iâm worth the headache.â you grin totally unserious before you zero in on Azriel. âYou definitely think I am, so, why do you look like the fun police?â
âI donât disapprove of fun.â He says quickly, raising his hands in mock defence.
âRight⊠So, itâs a lifestyle choice not to engage?â You ask, nodding to yourself like that makes total sense.Â
You poke his chest, a smirk tugging at your lips like youâre about to say something you shouldnât and absolutely will anyway. His hand comes up automatically to steady your wrist before you can jab him again, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin. He exhales softly through his nose resigned to your teasing.Â
âIâm just trying to work out if this is your personality or your current blood alcohol level.â Rhysand states leaning back in his chair while glaring at you like youâre under investigation.Â
 âI wish I could blame the alcohol, but this is a combination of the two Iâm afraid.â You wave a hand over yourself like itâs obvious before your attention drifts right back to Azriel as if Rhysand has already been dismissed.
âI didnât expect to see you h-â Azriel starts.Â
âUgh I know!â You cut him off with a shout right into his ear. He tenses instinctively as you lean closer, as if your tone isnât already deafening.Â
âThis place is overrated. I say it every time. And Iâm totally right about that by the way. But Dean is flirting with the bartender like itâs a full-time job and itâs honestly painful to watchâŠlike physically painful but yeah Ritaâs was out of the equation which sucks because her food is amazing⊠Anyway long story short Iâm here. Youâre welcome.â You ramble as if this is a reasonable summary of your night so far.
Azrielâs mouth quirks as he looks over to the bar intrigued, âWhich bartender?âÂ
That earns him immediate reactions from his family.
Nesta slowly turns her head toward him and stares like heâs lost his mind for encouraging you to go on. Â
Feyre lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. âIs this what happens when you remove him from silence? Pure chaos.â
Rhysand leans forward, squinting between the two of you. âWait is he actually invested in the bartender situation?â
âIs it the one with all the earrings?â Azriel asks you for clarification, giving you so much attention that it seems like this is genuinely important intelligence he needs to gather.
âPurple hair⊠I mean, that alone tells you everything you need to know about their life choicesâ You mutter making him laugh.
Your gossip is cut short when Cassian walks over with a tray full of drinks. âI left for five minutes and Azriel is laughing with a beautiful stranger.â Cassian says, staring like heâs witnessing an alternate reality. âDid he have a personality transplant while I was gone? And, sorry, did we acquire a new member of the Inner Circle in my absence?â
You smile innocently at him, âDonât worry about that, Az said he doesnât want to babysit another drink, so you can hand it over.âÂ
âI did not say that!â Azriel says immediately as you down the shot that was meant for him. âYouâre incorrigible - do you know that?â Â
âWhatever happened to whatâs mine is yours?â You laugh, slipping a hand into his hair to smoothing it back absentmindedly like youâve done it a hundred times before.
Everyone is so distracted by your audacity to touch Azriel that they donât register your words. Feyre freezes mid-breath, already preparing damage control. Rhys leans forward. âDid she justâŠâÂ
âYouâre either very brave or very stupid.â Nesta mutters as they all watch Azriel for a reaction that never comes. Instead, he just looks at you entirely unbothered like nothing about this is strange.
You clutch a hand to your chest dramatically as you look to Nesta, âthatâs genuinely, actually is one of the nicest things anyoneâs said to me tonight.â Your laughter cuts off as quickly as it starts, as you rush to add âAlso I actually get that A LOT!âÂ
Rhys huffs a laugh. âSomehow, I can believe that.âÂ
âIâm surprised youâre here; This isnât really your scene.â you say to Azriel.Â
âCassian gets antsy if we donât let him out the house.â Mor supplies making you giggle.Â
âTotally off topic but your shoes are incredible.â Feyre remarks.Â
âI thought you liked the dress?â Mor asks quickly.Â
âIf thereâs one thing about this group we can appreciate a good outfit.â Amren comments to which they all nod.Â
âSo many people have said that to me but if weâre being honest, I think theyâre starting to cut off my circulation! Wait - do you think that can actually happen?â  You ask looking to Azriel for an answer.Â
Refraining from saying he told you not to wear them, Az shakes his head at the question. âNo, I donât think you have to worry about that just yet.âÂ
âAre you having a good night?â Azriel asks wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him to hear your answer over the music.Â
âYeah, but Iâm tired. Is that what happens when you get old?â You ask supressing a yawn.Â
Azriel exhales through his nose. âIâm two months older than you!â
âDonât tell people how old I am, I have a terrible reputation to uphold Azriel!â you scold him before breaking into a fit of tipsy giggles and curling even closer into his side like itâs instinct.
âOh, youâre very drunk y/nâ Azriel mutters.
You laugh again. âItâs the two-month age gap⊠it makes me less responsible.âÂ
âIâm not sure thatâs how it works.â He says wrapping an arm around your shoulders.Â
âOh, trust you to find him but lose your jacketâ Dean mutters walking up to the table and throwing your jacket at you.Â
âMy hero!â You yell back catching it without looking in his direction.Â
âWait. No. This is wrong; why are there so many sleeves⊠ugh.â You struggle with it like itâs a puzzle for all of two seconds before Azriel quietly helps. âThank you. Iâve gone super cold.â Â
âFirst my drink, now my jacket.â Azriel remarks looking at the familiar fabric drowning you. Â
âNext your dignity.â you mumble, smiling sleepily as you slump back into him.
Feyre laughs.Â
âSheâs efficient, Iâll give her that.â Cassian says proudly.
âShe has no survival instinctâ Amren comments. You grin at her like thatâs a compliment.
âAnyway the purpose of the drop by is that Lunaâs having an afterparty. Are you coming?â You ask Azriel.Â
Rhysand clears his throat to get your attention before he can answer. âSorry, how exactly do you know each other?â Rhys pries.Â
âPlease donât tell us sheâs one of your spies.â Amren mutters.Â
You open your mouth ready to say something flippant and deflective, but Azriel beats you to it. âSheâs not a spyâ he says, glancing at your glitter-covered outfit. âLook at her.â
He canât look away.
âI feel a bit dizzy.â You admit abruptly. âSo, is that a yes or a no Az? Because snacks are calling me.âÂ
âDrink this.â He says suddenly holding a glass in front of your face.Â
âIs this water? See what I mean about the fun police now?â You remark humouring him by taking a sip.Â
âTrust me, youâll thank me in the morning.â He counters.Â
âIf I say no to Lunaâs, will you go?â Azriel questions with a yawn of his own.Â
You shrug. âYeah! If you go back to brooding in a booth while pretending youâre having fun, Iâll go to Lunaâs and tell everyone I tried to save you from yourself.â
âWhat time did she want us there?â he asks.Â
âSo, youâll come?â you clarify.Â
âI canât have you judging people without me, can I?â He asks much to your delight. You beam up at him, practically glowing, like that was the correct answer all along, and Azriel feels his heart go giddy in his chest.
âSo what time are we leaving?â He repeats.Â
âOh! She wanted everyone about an hour ago butâŠâ Your eyes glance back to the bar for a second before you look back to Azriel. âDeanâs still flirting, so we have time. Wow he moves slow!â You sigh like heâs a personal disappointment.Â
âI think you should give him some tips Az. Like I said, this is fucking painful to watch!â you add seriously.Â
Azriel shakes his head, amused despite himself. âI am not giving him tips.â
âI didnât say you have to flirt with him! Just go diffuse that situation⊠Thatâs your thing!â You instruct him, crossing your arms expectantly.Â
Cassianâs wheezes. âYou cannot be serious. Azriel is not the guy you go to if you need help flirting.âÂ
âWhy? Heâs good at it!â you shoot back immediately, offended on Azrielâs behalf.
Rhys slowly looks between the two of you. âHe is?â
Cassian points at Azriel like he needs confirmation. âThis one? This exact male? The one who avoids eye contact like itâs a sport?â
Feyre tries and fails not to laugh. âIâve known him for years. I donât think Iâve ever actually seen him flirt.â
You frown at them, confused. âWhat are you talking about? He flirts with me all the time!âÂ
You practically feel the entire table collectively wince on your behalf. âOh sweetheart⊠That does not help your case.â Cassian smiles at you giving you a look of pity, like youâve said something youâll regret in the morning.Â
Then Azriel leans down, close enough that his mouth is just by your ear as he mumbles, âCareful. Youâre going to give away all my secrets.â
 âYouâre so cute itâs unreal.â You giggle smushing his cheeks together.
Rhysand expects his brother to bat your hand away instead Azriel takes your hands gently prying them off his face but not letting go.Â
âWhat if we blew off Lunaâs and went home?â he asks quietly, giving you a look that practically shouts heâs ready to leave.Â
You watch him grab his jacket and call him out on what this really is. âAre you tired Az?â Â
âYes. Donât forget I am olderâ He winks at you like itâs a lie.Â
âMm⊠Do we have snacks?â You ask him urgently.Â
His mouth twitches for a second before he answers âYes. Iâll even make you something before you sleep so youâre not totally miserable tomorrow.â Â
âOkay. Youâve sold me!â You respond with a yawn. Â
Azriel reaches for the jacket already hanging off your shoulders, tugging it properly into place and smoothing it down like its habit. âRight then, Iâm taking her home before she forgets how to walk. I trust youâll all survive without meâÂ
âHe says that like he wonât pass out the second we get home. Itâs bold of you to assume Iâm the only liability here.â You dramatically roll your eyes.Â
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WHERE THE MOON SHINES BETWEEN US â one
Azriel x Rhysand's sister!reader
synopsis As the sister to the greatest Night Court High Lord in history, the one thing you share with Azriel is that you live in Rhysandâs shadowsâeach in your own way. But even being hidden canât stop your life from shattering, over and over again. When a bargain ties you and the shadowsinger together, what will stop that from being fractured, too?
tags yearning, slow burn, angst, hurt-comfort, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, inner circle, found family, did i mention SLOW BURN, this fic is literally her entire immortal life,
warnings features the spring court attack, under the mountain with rhys centuries later, & everything before, after, and in between. in this chapter: violence, angst, grief, mentions of war, spring court attack described in detail
word count 7.5k
author's note she's here. rhysand's sister if she survives and grows to rely on a certain shadowsinger more than she ever could have expected. technically i consider this two chapters, but we're setting everything in motion right off the bat regardless â expect no shortage of angst & yearning w everyone's favorite shadowsinger to come <3
series masterlist | next chapter | read on ao3 | taglist open
THE BEGINNING
Two years after you were born, a pair of boys opened the door to a windowless cell and pulled out their younger brother. He squinted, stumbling out into the open field under the dusky sun, and winced as his brothers tugged on his too-smooth hands that had only seen eight years of life. They threw him on the grass, soil staining his teeth, and splayed out his arms.
They wanted to test the healing that came from his blood, and so they did the first thing they could think of. The second-eldest brother kept him in place as oil sloshed over his palms, fingers, wrists. The eldest brother was the one to light the match.Â
The boyâs screams were what saved him.
Seven years before that, your brother was born. For Fae, the five years between you was barely a breath, but to Rhys, he might as well have been double your age. Your mother didnât need to raise him to care for youâit was innate, the way he wanted to shield you, to protect you.
He taught you to fly. Gently. When it didnât work, your mother took it into her own hands, doing precisely what she had done to Rhys. It worked. And youâd fly with him, sometimes, whenever you returned to the Night Court after a rotation throughout Prythian. Youâd tell him of Dawn and Day and Summer, and heâd look at you, grinning like you were showing him the world.
With a past of deprivation and enclosure, your mother knew more of what she didnât want for you than what she did want. She wanted none of the barrenness that came from being raised an Illyrian woman, terrified to lose her wings. Doing anything to prevent her cycle, to deny her body its natural course, only to have it come anyway, sending her to the square to have her freedom stripped. Caged. Clipped.
She wanted none of that for you.
You grew up around Prythianâas free as she could make you. It was a boarding school sort of arrangement; cycled throughout the courts for your schooling. Dawn, Day, Winter, Summer. Night Court was but a resting point, a home. You did your basic schooling there, but it was among the other four courts you attended that you truly grew, meeting new people who taught you various crafts and trades.
Your mother justified the system to your father by claiming it would teach you how to gain the favor of the other courts, encouraging alliances. For all you knew, perhaps it would lead to marrying you off someday. The daughter of a High Lord, even half-Illyrian, was still a daughter, after all. But for the first decades of your life, you couldnât be bothered to care. Not when women in your courtâwomen like your own cousinâwere suffering from within their cages, trapped.
It was thanks to your mother that you were nothing like them. That you were happy, safe, free.
You were barely twelve when Morrigan was brutalized by her own family, too young to truly understand the capacity of your eighteen year-old cousinâs suffering at the time. But you grew to appreciate the gift your mother gave you. It became your guiding star, your saving grace.
Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.
Even with so much time away from the Night Court, you saw Rhys often; despite being as worthy a warrior as his bastard brothers, he was in and out of Illyria to visit the Night Court as the High Lordâs son. Youâd grown to know many sons of High Lords and found your brother to be a better, gentler, more cunning heir than the rest. More importantly, even as you saw him growing stronger, he was still just your brother; you saw none of that politics in him. He always seemed to make sure of that around you, as if heâd wanted to spare you. Considering he was the one your father focused on for such things, it wasnât too difficult. It was your mother that placed any weight in your endeavors, who knew you truly.
Your mother had been merciless to Rhys in the way most Illyrian mothers were, though not unkind and generousâfar from it. You knew it was your mother that made Rhys the way he was, who made your brother someone so fiercely loving despite your father and not someone cold and sharp because of him.
You might not have seen him often, but never once did you doubt him.
Rhysâs love always glimmered behind his eyes, even in that stony mask of cold he put on outside in court matters. You could see it whenever you met his gaze, that hidden warmth behind his cunning violet. But you most often saw that part of him that was a brother more than anything in your motherâs houseâwhen he was with the two he considered his own siblings.Â
It was different for you, to know those two other Illyrian boys. You never stayed in your motherâs Illyrian houseâshe did all she could to keep you from Illyria, after allâand when you first began to visit her house at eighteen during your Night Court months, sick of staying in the Hewn City and desperate not to become what had been destined for Mor, it felt like being among intruders. Because throughout your life, you had been moving constantly, from court to court and back again. You had never had one safe harbor or refuge besides people. Home was Rhys and your motherânot these two Illyrians. Yet they were here, familiar to your home and not to you, born before you were even conceived. And they fit like puzzle pieces, even if you did not recognize them.
You were no stranger to Illyrians and their twisted ways; it was part of why your mother was so insistent on having you study abroad so often, unchained to any sort of possibility of what she had endured. That made you wary of Cassian and Azriel. What your mother had sufferedâand almost sufferedâat the hands of their kind, her kind, was horrific. Nearly unspeakable. Illyrians were brash, ruthless, lethal, merciless, and these two were no exception. But you soon learned the brash and ruthless one had been shamed and abandoned, had lost his own mother. And the lethal and merciless one had endured horrors and torture that turned his soul inwards. Yet neither brought their wrath upon you. No, they seemed tentative, careful with you at first. And yetâurgent. Steadfastly attentive. As if anything with a drop of their honorary brotherâs blood was their own.
You would remember that day forever: returning from a month in Day Court, languid and sleepy after poring endlessly in Helionâs sprawling, glittering libraries, and opening the door to a swaggering, thunderous Cassian who moved rather comfortably in the house. You'd opened your mouth when your mother embraced you, wanting to mention that she hadnât mentioned there would be other people here, too. Youâd shaken hands with a quiet, cool Azriel introducing himself without an ounce of acknowledgement of the shadows cloaking him or the fact that he was a stranger in your home. A sleepy-eyed Rhys had slid into the house after dusk, shrugging off his leathers and kissing the top of your head before collapsing into one of the dinner table chairs. Then he smiled and chuckled and laughed, as if those two filled him with life.
For years, you couldnât help your spark of ire.Â
A part of youâa hateful part of youâconsidered that perhaps you werenât sufficient. But then Rhys would come home and youâd see how his eyes would crease in the corners when he faced his brothers. His voice would lilt between the brothersâ animalistic fighting and thrown words, and even silent Azrielâs eyes would sometimes grow soft, losing that fogged, haunted gaze that had always seemed to cloud him. And so even if they were more brothers than you were a sister, perhaps Cass and Az were Rhysâs brothers. And if anything, you were glad there was a place for him to keep tending to the flames of his warmth.
There was a period later on, of course, when heâd become withdrawn at the hands of your father, who separated him from his brothers entirely. Youâd seen little of them, with the shadowsinger at the High Lord's whim and Cassian commanding legions. Rhys only had you until the trio reunited at the Blood Rite. That week, you were staying at the Night Court, and you couldnât sleep. Couldnât think. You had no doubt in Rhys, in his abilities, and you had heard enough about his brothers by then to know that they, too, were formidable. But there was always a chance. And those who expected Rhysâs survivalâall of the Night Courtâthought him unbreakable. But you had seen him broken and softened too many times to imagine him as the rest of Prythian did.
And when Rhys won the Blood Rite and returned⊠heâd come back with his brothers, but you were the first place he winnowed to, taking you into his arms and holding you with such ferocity you thought you might crumble. Heâd always cared for you, loved you as your brother, fiercely protective in the way many Fae males were, and you had always attributed it to those instincts and later; his guilt. But that day, when heâd held you so tightly, like it was this heâd been waiting for after reaching the top of Ramiel, you he was climbing towards rather than the summit, you realized how much he loved you for the sake of it. How much he needed you. And how much you needed him.Â
Nearly two decades drifted by. The war passed. Rhys gained and lost legionsâgained and lost himself. Heâd fought in battle, again separated from Cassian among the troops while Azriel was kept close to your father as spymaster. There were no more warm days in Illyria, no more voices filling the walls of your motherâs home. You hadnât realized that it was the presence of those three and your mother that had made Illyria bearable at allâmade it feel like a home at all.
You spent most of those seven years in Dawn, Day, and Velaris. Your mother, too, retreated from Illyria as it busied with warriors and preparations and kept to the City of Starlight.Â
Your brother, at least, kept in touch through your mind. There was no bond there, no steady assurance between you, but sometimes youâd be within one of Helionâs libraries when Rhysâs voice would find you, courts away.
He tried to hide it every timeâhow war hollowed him, stripped him bare.Â
And his walls were always upâthose mental shields, blocking out the horrors of what heâd seen. Whenever the Illyrian legions returned to their home bases, youâd abandon Velaris entirely, relieved to find Rhys with your mother in her home. You always knew he was aliveânearly every night, heâd manage to send some kind of message to you, which youâd pass to your motherâbut that never dulled the blow when you finally saw him.
One night, though, he hadnât sent word before his arrival. Youâd woken to the sound of the door opening, and you found him in the living room, sitting on the ground, wings drooping and his head in his hands, as if heâd been too tired to even sit on the couch.
I couldnât find them, heâd always tell you first. It was often the first thing heâd update you withâif heâd found his brothers among the dead. This time, however, he hadnât noticed you. Hadnât even lifted his head. Instinctively, you slipped into his mind, finding the answer without startling himâ
And was struck with the scene, so visceral and bloody you stopped short in your tracks.
That carnal, raw violence of the final stretches of battle, when weapons did little. When it was flesh upon flesh, brute force against brute force, and will against will. Bones cracking and guttural screams. No mercy. And the aftermath: bodies upon bodies, piling under the smoke. Flies and insects like maidens of death, flitting about the sea of the fallen.Â
And your brother, digging through them, hurling corpses aside at every sight of a wing.
Gentlyâso gentlyâyou retreated from his mind. So smoothly and soft, as if you were part of his own darkness, soft enough for him not to notice.
âRhys,â you whispered, and his chin lifted to you. His eyes were black, but his face was raw. âAre you hurt?â
He shook his head. Rasped, âDidnât find them.âÂ
Good news, a relief. But there was little warmth in your brotherâs voice. Only exhaustion. Bone-deep and so, so, lonely.
You said nothing. You only kneeled at his side and held him. Let him shed his tears in this darkness and solitude so that his legions would never know the heir to command was breaking apart. You knew that this place was a reprieve for him, that it was a pocket of the world that didnât know bloodlust and death. You and your mother helped Rhys heal from that absence of love during the War, but it was difficult when there was always a return to the battlefield.
That night you saw your mother from her doorway, woken from sleep. Even an Illyrian mother, never coddling, her eyes would narrow in that way they always did when she saw either of you in painâin true pain. In sorrow and desolation. As if she felt it, too.
Yet so softly, she would smile. As if her children, loving each other in a realm of so many brothers and sisters warring for power across the courtsâit made up for it.
Impossibly, those seven years passed. Youâd barely been able to study or focus knowing Rhys was off in the war, and to even imagine the rest of those you knew fighting made you sick.
Morrigan. Cassian. Azriel.
Your cousin, you were the most assured of. For she was making legends of herself with her successes, and there was always word of herâoff with the human queens, leading the charges and strategy, formidable and guided by truth. And Cassian, though never in the same rotations as Rhys, would pass through the Illyrian camp near your motherâs house with his own legion, and whenever you were there, the relief was disarming. Youâd find Rhysâs mindâor try to; he had always been better at the ways of daemati than youâand tell him his brother was still alive.
But Azriel⊠he was nowhere to be found. Nowhere at all.
Rhys told you it must have been because he was with your father, working closely as spymaster. You had little access to your father as it was and only Rhysâs word to count on. But you couldnât erase the shadowsingerâs nature from your memory, no matter how vague it was. He was the only one who might thrive in solitude. In desolation. Stillâat least Rhys and Cass were able to reconnect with your family in their own ways, no matter how rarely. Meanwhile, Azriel was the only Night Court spymaster there was. For all any of you knew, he could have been entirely alone with his shadows for those seven years. Just as he had been long, long ago.
As your family fought, you traveled between allied courts and mastered all else. Your studies were a welcome distraction as you grew, cultured yourself. You learned academics and the ways of healing and crafting and art. You practiced magic and glamours and fostered power. By three decades of life you knew things that Fae in their centuries hadnât yet learned.
By the end of the war, when the wall was built and humans were given freedom, you were not hailed as a hero, as the others were, but had still become formidable in your own way. A jewel of all courts.
You did not know politics, however. Not like Rhys. And you had met Tamlin before, albeit briefly, and Rhys had spoken highly of him. You didnât know that the rest of the Spring CourtâTamlinâs father and two brothersâhated your court for ridding them of their human slaves. Hated Rhys for the power he so clearly demonstrated. What you knew was what your studies and travels had shown you: the kindness of Fae. The warmth of different courts.
It hadnât occurred to you that there was a reason youâd never been sent to Spring Court. No more than their stance on humans in the past.
Five years after the war ended, your benefit of the doubt was enough for the sight of Tamlinâs father, the Spring Court High Lord, at the traveling Illyrian camp not to scare you. Not when you saw him over her motherâs shoulder.
Not until he drew a blade and plunged it through your motherâs chest.
You had learned healing in Dawn and Day, been taught things overseas that many your age would never have acquired. And though your power was not the same as those with such magic native to them, you think there had always been a part of you, unexplainable, that could tap into anything. Any little bit of magic if you tried hard enough. And it was Dawn and Day you had honed most finely, grown to feel at home in. It was the skills learned there that let you survive the onslaught and play dead, fashion a glamour until you seemed no more than a corpse for him to abandon. To try to heal your mother through the tears and deliriumâto mend the horrific, bloody strips of membrane left from being cut off. To somehow heal where the wings had been serrated from her, taken as if meant to be some prize or decoration. Her life force and freedom stolen to be framed like a prize of war.
You had failed in healing her, of course. Her head was already gone by then. But that didnât stop you from being covered in your motherâs blood by the time Rhys found you. You still donât remember what happened after that. Only the sight of Rhys when you woke in the House of Wind: his face in his hands, shuddering, too worn and shattered to even hear you wake. To even prevent you from hearing his voice when he thought you were asleep. It should have been me. It should have been me.
You did not fly after that. Not because you couldnâtâyour wings were intact, summoned at will like Rhysâbut rather because there was no part of you that could face your own Illyrian blood again. To use so freely what your mother had lost in agony with her life. Because it could have been you. Could have been you, keeping your wings in your motherâs place rather than tucked back behind you, disappearing into wisps of shadow. You could have been the prize, the target, rather than the spare that survived only because the Spring High Lord had underestimated you.
 You never told Rhys what you heard him say when you first woke in the House of Wind, but you so terribly wanted to tell him that he was wrong. That it should have been you.
âJust something. Anything.â
You hated it when Rhys sounded like this. Strained. As if it physically hurt him, grated the insides of his throat to speak to you.
âPlease,â he said for perhaps the sixth time that morning, his chin tipped down so low that he looked through his lashes at you, hugging yourself under the covers. His violet eyes glistened with miserably breathtaking beauty. Beauty you hated yourself for dimming. âYou love the Rainbow. Come on. Just an hour. Half an hour.â
âRhys.â You sounded hoarse. âLeave.â
He didnât answer for a moment, but you saw him stiffen. It was the first time youâd spoken in nine days. It had been like this for three months, having you lock yourself into your room in the House of Wind, with Rhys visiting every morning and night to try to coax you out of bed. Nobody else had tried to. Nobody else could.
Robbed of your mother, you had abandoned everything, body and mind. You didnât want to move or eat or speak. You did not use your wings. Did not summon them.Â
âI donât know,â Rhys said at last, impossibly soft. âI donât know how to help you.â
You swallowed a wince at the pang that shot through you. It hurt to see him this way, and you turned your back.
He called your name so desperately that you nearly whipped around.
âPlease,â he repeated, and the break in his voice this time was unfamiliar. Strange. âFather wants to send you to the Hewn City. But if you find a life here in Velaris, I think you can⊠I donât know,â he said, nearly frantic. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry I wasnât there. Iâm sorry Iââ His voice cracked entirely, and there was a sharp intake of breath that made the first tear slip down your cheek. âPlease. You need to get up. You canât be like this forever. If Father sends you down there, I donât know if youâll come back.â
To the Hewn City. To the place you insisted on being sent away from barely a decade ago, just a few years before the start of the War.
âRhysand,â you breathed. âGo. Away.â
âLike hell I will,â he growled, but his voice died instantly. âIâm not leaving you here to rot any longer. I need you to let me help you. You need to live again. Even just a little.â
You squeezed your eyes shut. âWhy?â
âYou canâtâcanât be sent down there. You know whatâll happen.â
Whatever would have happened to Morrigan.
You all but pounced past the barriers of your brotherâs mental shields, tearing through walls of dark, foggy smoke. Get the fuck out of my room, you snarled into his mind.
Get up and make me.
Prodding my anger wonât get you what you want, Rhysand.
A pause. All I want is for you to be all right.
For a moment, you saw yourself from his eyesâa silhouette under the covers, cloaked in night. You felt his anguish and fear and rage. The deep, languid shadows of his mind were familiar, warm to you despite their inherent cold, and he was permitting you free reinâyou knew he wasâbut you also knew that you could pass through his defenses most of the time already. You retreated back into your own mind, sending out your next words, brisk and toneless: Get out.
Let me see it, he replied.Â
No.
I wonât do anything to hurt you.
No.
I just need to see what hapâ
No.
Father has been wanting toâ
GET OUT.
Out of your head. Your room. Your life. Your grief. You thinned your defenses to the scrape of his talons on your shields, letting your brother see precisely what it was you meant, what it was you wanted. To wither away, to fall from the cliffs youâd once flown from. After years of soaring in the sky, to crash headfirst into the ground.
Rhys slipped past your mental shields like smoke spilling into glass. Iâm mourning her too, he said. I didnât endure what you did, but I understand your pain, sister. I want to help alleviate it. Any way I can. Let me.
You said nothing.
He sighed. I can arrange for someone else to escort you out, if youâd like.
The very thought of anyone new, unfamiliar, untrustworthy made your stomach roil.
Cassian, then. Heâd be happy to join you.
I barely know Cassian.Â
You trust him.
No more than you.
Who would you trust more than me, then?
Your motherâs face flashed into your mind.
Iâm sorry.
Get out of my head.
You felt him retreat.
âPlease,â Rhys said out loud. Again. âJust let me watch the memory. It could help Father find him. Make him pay. If you want, I can removeââ
Donât finish that sentence. Your pillowcase was damp now, and you didnât have the energy to speak. Just go.
For a moment, there was only stillness. Iâve apologized to you endlessly, and Iâll continue to do it until the day I die, he said. But I need to help you. How about Day? Iâm sure Helion would be willing to host you for a time.
Helion has a court to run.
You are like a daughter to him.
I am nobodyâs daughter anymore.
Rhys let out a shuddering breath.
âGo,â you said hoarsely. âPlease.â
He sounded faint. âHow can I leave you like this?â
Just like you have every other night I ignore you.
Talons scraped against your shields.
If my company is the issue, he said, consider Cassian or Azriel, at least. Genuinely. Just let them take you to the Artistâs Quarter for twenty minutes. Walk around. Say nothing. Wear a glamour for a while. Just leave the house. Even the room. I donât have to be with you.
You felt it then, his pain. His guilt. Felt his regret at not meeting you and your mother halfway on your way to him as he was meant to, instead training his Illyrian legions. For mentioning to Tamlin where you were at all.
You turned back over to your brother. Faced his twisted expression. Your company is not the issue, Rhys.
Your brotherâs brows quivered. How could you have forgotten, you thought, that he was the same male who had blamed himself for every fall you made when learning to fly? Whoâd snarled at even Cassianâs sly remarks at your expense in the first year youâd lived with them for your Night Court visits? He had been gifted the power to experience the minds and lives of othersâyet it surely tormented him now, to feel any of it.Â
You were evil, you thought, for making someone so fiercely loyal suffer with you like this.Â
His eyes softened. âTell me what to do to make it better for you. Tell me how, and Iâll do it.â
And you knew he meant it.
For the first time, you settled in a place indefinitely. You moved to Velaris and dealt with the grief until it dulled enough to paint itself into the sky rather than every living thing the sun touched; just enough to function again. To start visiting Dawn or Day again and even sometimes Summer or Winter.Â
Never Spring. Never Autumn.Â
The latter was filled with power hungry hounds. Beronâs sons, youâd learned, werenât all terribleâEris was somewhat tolerable alone, youâd discovered in a solstice ball, when heâd proven himself not as vile as his brothersâand in turn had learned you were not as the Night Court had been made out to be.Â
Lucien Vanserra was the only Autumn Court son youâd come to somewhat befriend. Youâd seen how his own court was cruel to him, how he, too, had love stripped away from him before his eyes. But when he fled Autumn to serve as an emissary for the Spring Court, you never saw him or sought to. You wouldnât hold it against Lucien, knowing that in a life like his, any kindness at all, any safe harbor, was deeply, wholly necessary. Let him have it, even under the court that killed your mother. Even after you would hear years later that the order for your head instated by Tamlinâs father had been annulled by Tamlin himself upon coming to power. Let Lucien have that kindness; so long as you would never lay any eye upon it.
You kept to Velaris. You had already been fond of it, but you grew to find a true, steadfast love for it, walking along the Sidra and visiting the Artistâs Quarter. Nodding to passersby faeries who had never needed to face the monstrosity of the world beyond.
You still did not fly. Did not summon your wings.
Even as you began to smile again, enjoy yourself againâwhen fleeting moments of joy would find you, and for just a breath, you would forget the hole burrowed deep within youâseeing Illyrian wings made you want to collapse in on yourself. They struck you like the memory of blood against stone, like a fragment of the past thrust upon the present.
Rhys had never summoned his wings when begging for you to leave your chambers those first few months of your grief. He had no reason to. And outside of your nightmares, you never saw such wings at all, But half a year after your motherâs murder, when you did try, slowly, to live again, it turned out Azriel had begun to take partial residence in Velaris almost immediately following the incident while serving as your fatherâs spymaster.
âHeâs rarely here because of missions,â Rhys told you a month after you began to join him for dinner. âHeâll be here for this week before the next. I just thought you should be made aware if you hear someone arrive in the middle of the night, or if you see any shadows slipping around. Chances are you wonât hear him at all.â
That much, you knew. In your motherâs house, Azriel was only heard when he wanted to beâwhen he knew you needed to know someone was in the house or approaching. Mostly when Rhys or Cassian were doing Cauldron knew what in their chambers and Azrielâs presence was enough to humiliate them into silence.
âWhen was the last time you saw him?â Rhys asked over his shoulder. He looked rested todayâthough worn. Heâd been warmer lately, almost relieved. Perhaps he thought you were truly getting better.
âStarfall,â you said absently, following Rhys to the hall. Youâd seen Azriel in the years following the war before your motherâs death. Youâd taken those five years for grantedâyour brother, his brothers, and your cousin who felt more like your sister finally united with you again. There had still been affairs following the war that drew them to their duties, but youâd been able to sleep easily for once and learn to work without an undercurrent of dread. Gods, youâd replay the memory of Azriel coming back to the House of Wind forever after the War: how heâd embraced Rhysand and Cassian like they were air. The shadowsinger had never been so overwrought with emotionâand your brother never so relieved.
And you, watching them reunite⊠youâd decided right then that you would never forgive your father.
âThatâs almost a year,â replied Rhysand.
You hummed distractedly, gaze trailing the archway. A month ago, youâd finally agreed to leave your bedroom to join Rhys for dinnerâand only because youâd heard him arguing with your father. The High Lord had visited you those first few months, but you were too hollowed out and empty to care. After that, whenever he came, you often only heard the tenor of his voice burgeoning until Rhysandâs joined himâuntil they were roaring at one another, then the sound barrier would come up, and you would lose any hold on what they said. It became clear to you, though, what was happening.
Rhys was suffering for what you had become, in more ways than one.
You had decided that would be no longer. Even if a part of you would always thrum with dread when you opened a door to an unfamiliar knock, even if you would never fly again, at least Rhysand could heal. He could thrive if he didnât have you weighing on his conscience. You could endure being hollow and broken, but you were tired of being a burden.
As you followed Rhys into the dining room, you saw Azrielâhis back to you as he moved something along the kitchen counter. Behind him, as they often were, his wings were tucked in tight.
The memory struck you like thunder.
It was clear as day: wings, discarded and shriveled from detachment, as if they had tucked into themselves without their host. Red fluid from the membrane glimmering over wooden floors.
You stopped short, blood screaming through your veins.
A hand caught your shoulder, and you flinched, a yelp slipping from you. Rhysâs eyes were round, and the certainty of the panic in his expressionâas if he wasnât surprised but ready for this, waiting for you to crumble even if he didnât know whyâstruck you with startling humiliation.
This is what you had become. Something skittish and fragile. So easily shattered.Â
âWhat is it?â Rhys asked softly. Behind him, Azriel had turned, brows liftedâthen settled as he found you. Shadows danced around him like ocean currents.
He said nothing, eyes flicking to Rhysand first. You already knew there was a conversation happening between them.
âSpeak out loud,â you snapped. âDonât tread around me like a child.â
Azrielâs gaze finally landed upon you. Darkness incarnate. Yet warm. âIâve been wanting to check on you for weeks, but Rhys said you wanted to be alone.â His eyes were unreadable, but his throat shifted. âHow are you doing?â
âFine.â
His chin dipped, as if it were a perfectly sufficient response. Youâd forgotten what it was like to speak to Azriel, the only one of those three brothers who seemed to accept your silence.
What is it? Rhys repeated. Your mental shields werenât upâthey rarely were lately, with how little you left the House. And how little energy you had.
You swallowed, passing by your brother to get a glass from the cabinet. Nothing.
Something exasperated and tiresome pulsed towards your mind. Please donât do this.
Iâm too tired to push you out, Rhys.
Good. I donât want you to. You practically threw terror at my shields a moment ago.
Azriel reached over you when you opened the cabinet, giving you a glass from the upper shelf. âThank you,â you murmured.
Still waiting, by the way.
Your fingers clenched around the glass as you went to the faucet. Go back to Azrielâs head.
Iâm afraid he already beat you to cursing me and throwing up his walls.
You slammed your shields upâmuch to your detriment, squinting your eyes for a moment as you filled the glass. Azrielâs gaze warmed you from your side, but you pretended not to notice for the sake of your dignity. There was already one Illyrian male coddling you. One too many.
Clouds of darkness surrounded your mental shields, slipping into the thinnest of crevices of your mind. Donât tell me you forgot we can bypass each other, sister dearest, Rhys purred.
You jerked the faucet down and whipped around to him, glaring. Stop. Out.
Wonât do that.
Rhysand.
Tell me.
Why the fuck do you want to know so badly?
Because I havenât felt that level of fear from you in months, he said. Did something trigger it?
You loosed a breath. Iâm fine.
For Cauldronâs sake, stop trying to put on a show. His eyes burned. Just tell me whatâs fucking wrong.
âMy mother is dead is whatâs fucking wrong,â you hissed, then froze. Azriel was at your side, and you could have sworn his shadows winced. Rhys blinked, then his features seemed to twist.Â
Shame flushed over you in an instant. âFuck,â you muttered, practically dropping the glass into the sink and shouldering past Azriel.
You were already out the door by the time you heard Rhys call your name.
It wasnât your room you went to, but the balcony outside the dining room.Â
When youâd begun to leave the House again, whenever your brother was out carrying your fatherâs orders, you were often left entirely by yourself. Rhys had managed to modify the wards of the House to allow youâand only youâto winnow in and out so that you wouldnât be dependent upon his flying.
Because you certainly couldnât depend on yours.
Rhys knew why you wouldnât fly. He knew. But that hadnât stopped him from pressing, over and over again, for weeks, months. And now, as you heard footsteps approaching behind you, you braced yourself for more questions, more whyâs and tell meâs even though he knew damn well what had happened to you. It was as if enough questions would give the truth room to change. As if you could return to the way you were half a year ago, before the attack.
Biting your cheek as you stared out towards Velaris, you managed a weak, âI donât want to hear it.â
âHear what?â
You turned to Azriel. He glanced over his shoulder, as if your brother would be there.
âHe left, if youâre expecting him.â The shadowsinger reached your side, looking out onto the glowing streets far below. âI think he understands now.âÂ
âUnderstands what?â you asked.
âThat he crossed a line.â
âNo shit,â you muttered.
HIs gaze flicked to you. But he kept quiet.
âI shouldnât have told him that,â you said. âI was just⊠I donât know.â
Azriel shrugged. His shadows trickled onto the terrace rails, curling over your fingers. âHe was pushing you too far.â
âYou couldnât even hear him.â
âNo,â he admitted. âBut I could see you.â
You felt your neck flush. âLovely knowing my brother isnât the only one watching me closely for damage control.â
âIâm not watching closely. Itâs obvious. Youâre an open book.â
âIâm not an open book. Youâre just a spymaster. Itâs your job to observe.â
He shrugged again. But his shadows seemed to compressâdarken.
You frowned at him as his gaze drifted along the winding Sidra. âWhen did you start working directly under my father again?â After the war, his duties had loosened considerablyâenough for him not to work at your fatherâs every whim. Enough for your brother to see him again.
âOnly this year. After the ambush.âÂ
The ambush. Not the Spring Court attack. Not your motherâs murder. Nameless yet direct. You didnât know what to make of it.
âIs it⊠all right?â you asked. When his eyes met yours, questioning, you added, âI mean, I remember the warâhow long you were gone. And I know my father. I can imagine working under his command is⊠demanding. Besides, the last time I saw you was last year.â You scoped his features. Azriel did look tired, you realized. Not entirely, but enough, with darkness pooling in more places than beforeâunder his eyes, in the hollows under his cheekbones. The angles and planes of that undeniably beautiful Illyrian face had been sharpened. Honed. âYou seem⊠preoccupied.â
âItâs been fine,â he answered simply, not wasting a breath. Rhys had told you the truthâthat Azriel had been on constant missions, put under even more unrelenting pressure than even Rhys himself. At least your brother had the comfort of familial bonds to push back against your father when needed. Azriel had nobody and nothing to protect him. Nothing but his duty and honor as a shadowsinger.
âHowâs Cassian?â you asked. Youâd only seen him weekly since moving to Velaris. According to Rhys, heâd tried to visit almost every other day during those first few months when you isolated yourself, but Rhys hadnât allowed anyone to see you. Youâd barely been able to face your own brother and father, much less anyone else. When you began to enter the world again, it was Cassian and Mor who escorted you to the Rainbow on the days Rhys went off to his duties. Cass was kind, warm, easy. A welcome light in your pit of darkness.
And you hated it, how both him and your brother so easily looked after you.
âI havenât seen him in a month,â Azriel replied. âBut he seemed fine when I last did.â
You shifted on your feet. When you had resided in your motherâs home, Rhys and his brothers couldnât go more than a day without needing each otherâs company. Now things felt like the warâbut without their resistance as they tried so desperately to find each other. âRhys said he barely sees you these days, too.â
His wings seemed to tighten impossibly moreâdrawing your attention to them again and lodging in your chest.
Blood on wood. Blood on stone. Blood on wings. Blood on your hands.
Your breath caught, and you pressed a palm to the marble rails, drumming your fingers to stay in reality. To feel the cold. This is real, you told yourself. Velaris glittered, pulsed at your feet. This is where you are. The memories are just memories. What happened in them is over.Â
âWhat you said to Rhys wasnât wrong,â Azriel told you suddenly. You looked at him. He was already watching you. âI know you regret telling him that. But if anything, it made Rhys see a little more clearly.â
You exhaled. âI just⊠feel bad. Heâs suffering.â
Azriel swallowed. âI know.â
âI donât know what to do. How to make it easier for him. I feel like Iâm making him suffer more.â
Azriel looked at you. Blinked, as if⊠startled.
You bristled. âWhat?âÂ
He seemed to regain his focus. âNothing, just⊠he said the exact same thing about you just now. Word for word.â
Somehow, that made it worse. More tangible. You were the face of Rhysâs guilt, and you knew it.Â
âI know that you know,â he went on, âbut he cares for you. Deeply. The kind of love he has for you is rare, even among siblings. Just be patient with him.â
You winced and hated yourself for it. Your brother loved you, and you knew it, and yet the idea only felt like a burden. âI donât want him to. I donât want him to worry for me anymore.â
âIt canât be helped,â Azriel said. âBoth of you need time to heal. Heâs grieving for himself, but heâs also grieving for you. Youâve always meant the world to him. Youâre one of the only things he has that the court canât take away from him.â
Perhaps when you were being schooled all across Prythian so long ago, when you had recounted the other courts to Rhys and he looked at you with such wondrous love, as if you were the worldâit had been the world you were showing him. Perhaps to your brother, you had been a breath of freedom. And when you collapsed into yourselfâturned into a shellâhe had lost that. Been trapped in the world he was born into again.
Heat welled into your vision. âFuck,â you said, and you turned from Azriel, now humiliated as much as you were heartbroken. If you werenât so damn fragile, so weak-hearted, Rhys wouldnât know you were irreparable. He could have found peace if you could just force this fear down, this grief. He could have had you as a safe harbor while his brothers were gone, pulled apart by politics and time and war.
Azriel shifted behind you, coming closer. You felt his shadow pass over you. âThey will pay,â he said, deathly soft. âThey will pay for everything they did to you.â
You squeezed your eyes shut, tears slipping down your cheeks. Shook your head. âThey might not.â
âI swear it.â He sounded rougher now. Sharper. âI swear to the Mother.â
âDonât do that.â
âGive me your hand.â
You sniffed, turning back to him. âWhat?â
âGive me your hand.â He extended his palm to you. âIâll make a bargain with you. My primary task under your father has been to find the Spring Courtâs weaknesses to counterattack.â His shadows whirled around him, almost entirely shrouding his wings. âLet me prove it to you. Let me promise you.â
You blinked. âI donât⊠donât want to force you.â
âIâm already bound to this mission by the High Lord himself. Thereâs no more forcing to be done.â
You held Azrielâs gaze, that hazel in the gilded fae light. They carried more than you had ever seen from him in those passing months each year in your youth.
âI swear on my life, daughter of the Night Court,â he said. âThe High Lord of Spring and his sons will pay for what they did to you.â
Your brows furrowed. âThatâs a vow, not a bargain.â
He inclined his head. âThen if I succeed, youâll do a favor of my choosing. Deal?â
Azrielâs outstretched hand was lined and marred with scars, whorls of roughened skin. Memory, nightmares, permanently engrained into him. The darkest backbone of his life, wearing his promise.
You accepted. It felt like something had finally steadied within you as Azrielâs hand gripped yours, warm and firm. âItâs a deal, Shadowsinger.â
Almost imperceptibly, Azrielâs mouth tugged. And when you finally released his hand, your own was inked with the mark of the bargain, covered in night-dark lines.Â
author's note thank u for reading lovelies <3 let me know what you think! i've been in genuine flow state writing this fic because the concept of a half-illyrian daemati who isn't rhys and is a girlboss is just⊠well yes. i'm hoping to update weeklyish if not sooner. taglist is open, just comment to be added!
đđwhen I asked for superbat omegaverse I really didn't think you'd hit me with hot spiky bricks (â„áșâ„) what did I ever do to you??
Nah I'm kidding I love this!! Aghh it hurt me so bad,and you mentioned that you'd try to give me something fluffy because this was meant to kill me,but,BUT, can ya gimme a continuous for this pleaseeeeeee,but with a happy ending, after making sure Clark has faced consequences (seeing Bruce silently drifting so so far away from him) and has repented GOOD like begging on his knees, crying, desperate, dying kind of repentance,but still a happy ending (please don't end it sad or else I will cry)
*aims a blowtorch at my brick pile*
Part 1
Clark hasn't been in Bruce's nest for six weeks when it happens. He hasn't kissed him in four, after Bruce gave up the facade for everyone and secluded himself more. He's not touched him in three. He's not seen him in one.
He moved in with Lois. She has cursed him out six ways to Sunday when he turned up on her doorstep and spilled everything, after making sure Kon couldn't hear them, and he's been sleeping on her couch, letting her drive him to work, then collapsing back onto her couch. The kids haven't come by. The know he messed up, that whatever is going on is his fault.
The most he can do is go out as Superman. That, at least, helps. Being good, helping people, not messing up like he did with Bruce. Not with the JL. He can't bring himself to face his friends. Their friends.
Plus, there's the kids. That's what he just did. Saved an entire bus of schoolkids after their bus' breaks failed. And it's now, being clambered all over by tiny, excited little gremlins, that it hits him just how bad he messed up. Heâ he wants this. This chaos, this joy, this stress, this everything that consumes every moment when you're a parent. He wants it.
He needs to talk to Bruce.
Then, as if Bruce heard him, there's a tug on their mating bond, like Bruce is wont to do when he wants Clark's attention.
And he's ready to talk, he's ready to speed across the bay to Gotham, and crumples to the ground instead, with a scream that makes all the kids in the area burst into tears.
He clutches at his head, in agony as Bruce's grip on their bond cinches, ready to snap it, ready to end their relationship.
"Superman! Superman!" There's people calling his name, but Clark can't focus on them, not with his entire world about to shatter, his heartbeat screaming in his ears, every nerve ending on fire.
"Clear the way! CLEAR THE WAY!"
Someone grabs his hands, someone else his head, familiar hands, soothing presences he can't focus on.
"It's Bruce," someone murmurs, he thinks it might be J'onn.
"Is he dying?" Diana, sharp, worried.
"Worse," is the brief reply, silencing them all, they know what that means.
"Flash, get him to Gotham. Now." Someone's picking him up, Clark wants to curl up in a ball, but he can't, he'll crush every bone in Barry's body if he does.
The grip gets tighter, the bond pulls taughter, and Clark shoves away from Barry, landing harshly on the Manor's hardwood floors, punching a fist through them as another scream rips from him. Footsteps, running, shouting, familiar voices, familiar fingerprints sliding over his skin, snagging on his pores.
"Clark," Kon calls, closer than any of the others. "You can't break me, c'mon, squeeze." Slim fingers wrap his hand around his clone's, his son's, and he can't resist, he obeys, tightening his grip as he curls up again, unable to contain his scream.
"I've gotcha. It's alright. Where's Bruce, guys?"
"His nest."
"If he wants this, shouldn't weâ"
"Do you really think your dad wants this, Tim? Come on, Clark."
He can't walk. Kon pulls him to his feet, and even that much speed is too much, he stumbles away and throws up in a plant pot. There's grossed out noises somewhere behind him, but Kon just grabs him again and lifts him off the floor a few seconds later when he puts his foot through it as another wave of pain hits.
They can't move fast, Clark just throws up, so it's a slow stumble through the manor, until they're at their room and Kon fumbles with the door. He pushes it open, loses his grip on Clark, tries to catch him, and they both fall into the room. Clark, again, punches right through it, and barely stops the rest of himself from following.
The pressure in his head releases abruptly, the bond going lax again, still intact, and Clark moans in relief against the carpet.
"Hey, Bruce," Kon chirps.
"Kon. Why is..."
"Hell no. I got him here. Bye, guys!" The door doesn't slam, it barely makes a noise when Kon closes it, but it reverberates around Clark's skull, and he claws at his hair, unable to tear out his brains.
He manages to get to his hands and knees and crawls forward falteringly, until he reaches the boundary of his mate's nest, and collapses alongside it. Inside, Bruce sits, bundled up in blankets, wide, red eyes fixed on him.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and it sounds like a yell. "I couldn't bring myself to do it."
"What?"
"I couldn't break the bond. I knowâ I know it's weak. Selfish. I'll try again."
Clark feels the slight starting tug again, and surges forward, before remembering he's not allowed in Bruce's nest anymore, and throws himself back. "Don't. Please, don't."
Bruce lets go, and tilts his head, curious.
"Bruce, love, babyâ Please don't break the bond. Unless you want. But honey, if you think I want this, then please, please don't break it."
"I did not mean to prolong the pain so much. As I said, itâ"
"It wasn't selfish. I don't want to stay mated to you to avoid the pain, I want to stay mated to you because I love you, Bruce. You are my best friend, and my whole heart, how could you ever think I wouldn't want to stay with you?" Another wave of pain rolls through his head, even without Bruce gripping the bond anymore, and Clark buries his head against the floor, careful not to break it, and groans, lips brushing the carpet fibers, feeling them catch in the divots of his flesh.
There's a shuffle, then a slide, a quiet hiss of fabric, then a delicious weight settles over his shoulders. Light as a feather, but the action weighs tons as the blanket lays over him, and Bruce picks his way back to the far side of the nest.
Clark feels tears press at his eyes, and desperately blinks them back. He loves Bruce so much, he doesn't deserve his beautiful omega.
Clark spots the TV eventually, showing a paused news report, the footage him, surrounded by kids, beaming at them. Other people's kids, and abruptly understands why Bruce's tried to break the bonds. He promises, swears up and down he wants kids, wants them with Bruce, he will do whatever it takes to prove it, and slowly, gradually, Bruce believes him.
Neither are sure how long they're there, Clark making promises, and plans, and everything he can to make sure Bruce believes him. But he never asks. Not once, does he ask, to come into the nest. He will stay out of it for the rest of their lives if that's what Bruce wants.
He's on the topic of nursery colours, when Bruce interrupts him, whisper quiet. "Clark. Come to me."
He freezes, then peels himself off the floor where he'd let himself collapse, and crawls into the nest, then further, and further, until he can collapse again, into Bruce's lap, can wrap his arms around his waist, touch his head to his stomach, and bury his face in Bruce's lap.
"I'm sorry," he gasps into the blankets, and Bruce's trembling hand lowers to his hair, stroking softly. "I'm so sorry."
Bruce pulls him up, stares into his eyes, both of them blurry to the other thanks to tears, until Bruce cups his cheek and reels him in, kissing him gently, then fiercer, then gentle again. Clark welcomes it all, and lets his omega curl into him, lets him bury his face in his chest and cry, and hit him, and kiss him, and takes it all, holding him close, and crying with him.
When they make it downstairs, eventually, when it's dark outside and has been for hours, they find everyone. Bruce's kids, Kon, their kids, Lois, Diana, J'onn, Barry, Ma, Pa, all of them, crammed into one sitting room, not a single one asleep, looking frazzled, furious, and a thousand other things.
Dick stands when they come in, and Clark knows he's in danger, reflexively tightening his grip on Bruce's hip.
"So. Clark." Dick smiles, all teeth, and Bruce squeezes back, a silent reassurance. "What the hell did you do?"
âș summary: the death of your mother has paused your studies and, despite everything, brought you back home. the pressure of school, her sudden absence, and the guilt youâve carried since leaving at eighteen hollow you out in ways you canât name. in the overgrown quiet of your childhood backyard, you find yourself wishing for an existence that isnât yours. the wish sinks deepâdeep enough to cause a rift, to tear something open in the world. and you, overwhelmed and ever so curious, fall right through it.
âș or: reader, drowning in a grief so deep it splits the world open, falls through a tear in space in her childhood backyard. she lands in prythian, a land full of fae, courts, and ancient magic.
azriel, who has known for centuries that he has no mate, no missing half, feels the shift the moment she arrive. something in the world changes. something in him changes.
your new existence in his world creates a new piece of his soul he was never meant to find, but what can he do. after all, you don't belong here.
âș status: ongoing
âș word count: tbd
âș taglist: (idk how to do this. dm me or comment if you wanna be on the taglist lol)
your mother's death pulls you back to a house that never felt like home â and grief opens a door to someplace else.
02 â the dawn that took (3.5k)
the Dawn Court and Prythian overwhelm you, but Thesan and Elowen offer gentle comfort as you adjust, preparing yourself for the unprecedented meeting of the High Lords.
03 â the pull (4.0k)
the High Lords convene to witness your arrival, and when your eyes meet Azrielâs across the table, an unspoken bond snaps into place, leaving him shaken and unsure.
04 â against the bond (5.6k)
you arrive in Velaris and settle in, but Azriel is absent. when you finally see him, a quiet, tense tea moment leaves unspoken words between you as you leave, him nowhere in sight.
05 â what will it be (3.8k) (posted!!)
Azriel grapples with the agony of distance as youâre unexpectedly sent back to the Night Court, forcing him to confront his restraint, the bond, and the unbearable tension of seeing you again.
06 â returning currents (posting jan 5th (DELAYED SORRY))
A chaotic night at Ritaâs leaves you and Azriel sharing quiet moments under the starlight, but morning brings an unexpected visit from Thesan.